First plans
by MaggieMay19
Summary: I hadn't planned on writing a prequel to 'Vanishing Ink' but I couldn't get it out of my head. Now I have. Where else could Patrick Jane have gone after leaving the hospital except back to his house in Malibu?
1. Chapter 1

Patrick Jane woke with a start to the sound of his phone ringing. He was lying on one of the couches in his office in the guesthouse at the back of his property in Malibu. He hadn't felt able to go into the house yet so after driving here yesterday he'd taken the service road and come to the back, wanting to find out what had been happening during his stay in hospital. His only clues when he'd been discharged were the two voicemails on his phone, both from months ago. One had been from his lawyer, asking him to call when he recovered, and the other from his PA asking the same. He couldn't face talking to his lawyer so he'd called his PA and listened with growing surprise to her outgoing message:

"Hello, this is Susan McGowan, PA to Mr. Patrick Jane. I'm very sorry, Mr. Jane is no longer with us. On his behalf I'd like to thank all his patrons and clients. He always said it was a privilege to share in your lives, however briefly. Please do not leave a message. Thank you." She'd recorded the same outgoing message on the office phone.

She hadn't known how long he would be in hospital so she had to come up with some message to stop his clients calling. Implying he was dead but not actually saying it would stop them from trying any harder to find him while giving him a bigger air of mystery if he ever made a comeback. Clever. He'd always had a great deal of respect for Susan. When his credit card had worked at the car rental place his esteem for her had grown even higher.

The phone was still ringing. What time was it? He pulled it out of his vest pocket and looked at it. Two seventeen pm, his lawyer was calling. He snapped it open.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Patrick Jane?"

"Is that you, Zack?"

"Paddy! It's great to hear your voice! You gave us all a big scare back there. Where are you?" Only people from his dim and distant past called him Paddy. Zack's father Simon had been famous in the Carnie world as the go-to lawyer on the West Coast. Patrick had only been thirteen when he first met Zack Taylor, then just a law student. Although they were more than eight hours' drive away in Carson Springs Patrick wouldn't have dreamed of having anyone else as his family lawyer.

"I'm in my office down in Malibu. Since yesterday evening."

"Yeah, I got a fax yesterday from the hospital about your discharge, then a notification from the credit card company when you rented the car. You, uh, sure you want to be back there so soon?"

Patrick ignored the question. He'd needed to know where he stood before he did anything else and his office in Malibu was the only place he could start. He hadn't wanted to come back, not ever, but his new purpose in life had driven him here, he'd had no choice. So, Zack had a fax from the hospital? Interesting. He probably had other paperwork from the hospital too.

"So you're my guardian, huh? The five wishes thing?"

"The five wishes thing and the durable POA. After you were taken to the ER Susan called me. I came down on the first flight I could get and took over as your proxy. Though really, Paddy, Susan was mostly the one looking after your affairs. After a week or so I left her to do all the the legwork. I pretty much just signed off on her recommendations. She's very thorough and scarier than she looks when she gets going, isn't she? I heard her on the phone to your medical insurance people a few times, I'm not surprised we won your appeal.

"Yeah, I read her note. What happened to Susan? And Emilio and Lila?"

"One of your neighbors snapped up Lila and Emilio when they got laid off, Trevor Worthington I think. Susan, uh, she's working for me now." Patrick could hear the tension in his voice. "After she laid herself off I hired her to run things here. She moved to Carson Springs about four months ago."

Patrick was pleased about Lila and Emilio. It had been obvious when he arrived that his gardener and housekeeper were no longer in his employ. He was glad things had worked out for them. Trevor was a slight acquaintance, he'd always seemed something of a boy scout to Patrick. Hopefully that meant he'd be good to his employees. He'd wondered about his PA last night while he had been going through the records she'd left for him. She could be helpful if she still worked for him but did he really want to include anyone else in his search for Red John? He'd decided no, definitely not. His new purpose had to be private. If he was going to do what he intended to do he was best leaving everyone else out of it.

"Glad to hear it. She deserves a good job, they all do. I guess she's closer to Marie and the grandkids now. You got yourself 'a price above rubies' there Zack."

"I know I have, thanks Paddy." Zack had sounded worried about having hired Susan, maybe he was afraid Patrick would think he's stolen her away, or even want to hire her back? Now he sounded relieved. "Look, the reason I called was because now you're out of the hospital you don't need me to be your proxy anymore. I just have some documents for you to sign, your POA and five wishes need updating, that sort of thing. Would you like me to fly down? I can be there tomorrow around lunchtime."

"No, it's OK, I have some business in the Bay Area, I can go there via Carson Springs. I'll drop by tomorrow afternoon if that's okay?"

"Sure Paddy, no problem. Ah, would you mind if I ask what is the nature of this business?" Zack suddenly sounded very uncomfortable.

"Why would you ask that?"

"The discharge fax from the hospital was very specific. It wanted me to check you weren't drinking or, uh, gambling. Sorry Paddy, I don't want to pry but until you sign this paperwork I have a duty of care." He probably genuinely didn't want to pry, Patrick thought. Dr. Miller had told him to avoid narcotics too, when he'd been discharged she had left him with just enough meds for a few days rather than issuing a prescription. Zack must be too embarrassed to ask about that. Interesting.

"I just need to take the rental car back, Zack," Patrick replied mildly. "I'm buying a car but it wasn't available straight away so I rented for a couple of days. No booze, no card games, I swear." It was the truth but it wasn't the whole truth. He also had plans for his hospital records, an idea about how to start his hunt for Red John. Now he knew about the fax from the hospital he would have to make plans for Zack too.

"Um, Paddy, is there someone who can stay there with you? The fax also said you shouldn't be alone for the first few days…" Patrick rolled his eyes impatiently. Susan would have handled me much better, he thought. I guess I ought to be grateful Zack chose to call me instead but there are limits...

"Well you can call one of your hookers for me if you like, Zack, but I won't be much use to her while I'm on my meds." He'd kept as much sarcasm out of his tone as he could, he liked Zack. Between them, he and Susan had looked after his affairs better than he could have hoped. If Zack had decided not to ask about drugs Patrick was pretty sure mentioning a hooker would put Zack off even more. "Tell you what I'll do, I'll take her to go visit Trevor this evening, maybe we'll bump into Lila and Emilio as well, they know how to party. You want me to get him to call to say I arrived OK, or would you prefer something in writing?"

"Oh come on, Paddy, there's no need for any of that. I had to ask. Your Dr. Miller was, well, very forthright about what you should and shouldn't do in the first week after your discharge." Yes she was, Patrick thought. She was afraid I might be vulnerable to becoming an addict after I left. It's a bit late for that, though.

"I'm sorry Zack, you know I hate being told what to do. I'm fine, enjoying the freedom, you know?" Freedom. Just saying the word out loud flashed the vivid memory of Janis Joplin on the radio one rainy night in the middle of nowhere singing 'Me and Bobby McGee' some time in his childhood, his dad behind the wheel of the RV wiping away a tear. It was the only time he'd ever seen his dad moved by a song. Patrick knew he had nothing left to lose: the idea of re-framing it as 'freedom' was an intriguing one. "I do have a question for you, though. Why the Hangley Shorter in San Francisco? We have hospitals around here you know."

"You have lots of rehab facilities down there. The Hangley Shorter has the best doctors and facilities in the state for long-term in-patient psychiatric care." Susan's notes had pretty much said the same thing. He had wondered if there might have been more to it, but Zack sounded genuine. He'd also been polite enough not to add the word 'secure'. He should cut him some slack.

"If you say so. I'm not sure I agree with you about the facilities though. Their _moules mariniere_ left a lot to be desired and their g_igot d'agneau pleureur_ was tough as old boots. You know," he added, as though he was mentioning some curious fact he'd recently discovered, "it's very hard to eat that stuff with a wooden spoon." This elicited a chuckle from Zack.

"Man, it is good to hear you talking like that. I'm glad you're feeling better, Paddy."

"It's good to talk to you too, Zack. I'll see you tomorrow."

So… It had been a while. He remembered the Taylor & Son Legal Services office as having a domestic lock on the front door, regular filing cabinets. They wouldn't present a problem. He didn't remember there being an alarm but he could check for one when he visited tomorrow. He'd already decided to see Dr. Miller when he returned the rental car, on the pretext of thanking her but in fact to find out how to get at his hospital records. Once he'd dealt with them he was going to spend some time in a library, researching Red John. Hangley Shorter was a UC teaching hospital but he didn't want to use their library and risk bumping into anyone who could recognize him. Stamford was only an hour or so out of San Francisco and Stamford Medical School was supposed to be the best in the world, wasn't it? He'd be able to get his hands on copies of anything he needed there, once he'd worked out a way to gain entry to it.

After that he could start making real plans.

Patrick threw the dust sheets back over the couch, the desk, then locked up. He turned and hesitated. There were just a couple of things he needed to do first before he set off for Carson Springs. He took a few deep breaths before forcing himself along the familiar little path to the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick Jane unlocked the door to his house and stood a moment on the threshold. The house was quiet, of course. There wasn't much furniture left – Susan's notes had said all the rented furniture had been repossessed – and the floor had a thin film of dust covering it. His footsteps echoed a little as he walked in. He started with the kitchen: even the refrigerator was switched off. He checked the cupboards: they'd been emptied of food, presumably to deter vermin. There were some tins: meat, vegetables, milk. Teabags and instant coffee were in glass jars. That was Susan's handiwork he was sure: very sensible and a bit mumsy, the sort of emergency rations he might expect to find in a survivalist's bunker. He grabbed a refuse sack from under the sink.

It's time, he thought.

He climbed the stairs, opened the bedroom door, saw the smiley face painted in his wife's blood on the opposite wall. The image haunted his dreams, he saw it again each time he closed his eyes but it was still a shock to see it in real life, visceral like a punch to the stomach. It was not as red as he remembered, probably the color was fading over time. Maybe one day, years from now, the bright Californian sun would fade it to invisibility but it would never disappear, it would still be there even if he could no longer see it. A bare mattress, a thin blanket were the only other things in the room. He remembered he had been sleeping here whenever he had become too exhausted to stay awake.

"I will kill him." He had said it aloud, though he didn't know why. Killing the monster wouldn't bring them back but just saying it out loud calmed him for some reason. His thoughts rang very clear_: I came here, I am looking at it, I am very sad but it has not destroyed me._ Dr Miller had convinced him that he had a choice. He had chosen to live so that he could find and kill Red John. The paradox of his life was his secret joke, his driving force: stronger than steel, colder than the bleak wastes of space, harder than diamond, less tangible than smoke. Choosing life for death's sake had restored his sanity. He would be the first to admit it was the worst possible reason for living but it was the only one he had and he embraced it. _Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the charlatan._ Then he repeated to himself_ I am looking at it and I can bear it._ He knew in that moment he would be able to come here again.

He tore himself away from the face, turned to his closet. The rails were empty, instead the floor was piled high with clothes. From the top he picked out a few shirts, two suits, rummaged for some underwear then stuffed them all into the sack. Closing the closet he took one last look at the face that epitomised his new purpose then turned and walked away. He locked up and headed over to the car, throwing the sack of clothes into the trunk. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, breathing deeply, only now realising he wasn't weeping. He had expected he wouldn't be able to stop himself: maybe it was his meds. Plenty of gas, won't have to stop for a while. He turned the key and swung the car out onto the road.

Patrick had done a lot of thinking on the drive down to Malibu. He'd been so afraid of how he'd react, maybe his need for revenge was just his old insanity in new clothes. Now he knew that wasn't true. He had been to his house, had felt the shock and guilt and deep sadness but it hadn't brought him to tears, hadn't made him relapse into madness. Instead, and stronger, he had felt again his resolve to kill Red John. There would be time to mourn once the monster was dead.

Now he was on the Interstate heading back north Patrick's brain was buzzing again. He couldn't stop thoughts, plans, ideas, notions from sleeting through his mind in a constant blizzard. Uncharacteristically violent when Red John was at the centre of them, so very sad when he thought of his little family, he never felt he was defined by the malestrom in his head. Choices, Dr. Miller had said. His choices define him. He had chosen to become a murderer.

He had chosen to become a murderer. Oh, he'd always known he wasn't really a good person but he'd never considered himself very bad. On the rare occasions that he'd thought about it he had considered himself to be roguish, not evil, and there was a word with a winning twinkle in its eye, a charming smile on its lips. He'd never been violent. How could he be the smartest person in the room – the clever hero of his own internal narrative – if he had to resort to violence? Everyone has a line they won't cross. Now he had chosen to break even this last taboo. He had decided he would murder someone in cold blood. No, not someone. The monster wasn't a person. Normal rules didn't apply here. Killing Red John slowly, horribly, like in the dreams where he wakes up screaming might seem evil to some but would really be an act of justice. Killing him quickly would even be an act of mercy. Letting the monster live, that would surely be the evil choice.

Even as the thought crossed his mind he shook his head. No, it doesn't work like that_. I will not choose to delude myself that killing Red John is a moral act._ He may not be violent but Patrick knew he was still a bad person_._ When he framed it like that he realised he would be able to kill Red John when the time came. A bad man could end someone's life once he chose to. _I know it to be a necessary act. I will be able to do it because I know I am evil enough to commit cold-blooded murder._

_Only a bad man_ _would find that thought as reassuring as I do_, he mused. Patrick felt he was coming to terms with himself. He knew he had unleashed the monster on Angela and Charlotte, their horrific deaths had been caused by him even though his hand hadn't wielded the knife. If he hadn't been so blinded by his own arrogance they would still be alive. It was his fault. It was fitting that he felt the weight of it, appropriate that he should never be rid of the pain of it, right that he should have a conscience. Yes, he was a wicked man who nevertheless had a conscience. He would never again be blind to his own wickedness.

His mind made a connection and he found himself remembering some film from years ago about a vampire who had a soul. He'd taken Angela to see it because he'd known she secretly had a thing for the leading man. He'd found it pretentious but she'd loved it, watching the man flouncing about in – and out of – the frilly old-fashioned costumes. He'd spent far more time watching her in the darkness than the film, the soft reflected light flickering over her face, her expression changing moment by moment as the drama unfolded, oblivious to his gaze. They had been so young, so happy, so in love…

He let the sadness of the memory wash over him. He was no longer drowning in self-pity but it was right that he fully felt this pain. It would always remind him of his new purpose as well as his old life. A monster with a conscience, just like the film. _No, I'm not the monster. Red John is the monster. He deserves death and I will give him what he deserves_. The actions of two murderers might look the same but he could see the difference and it was real. He intended just one murder, in revenge, a life for their lives. It wasn't the same and thinking like this wasn't a delusion. Patrick felt calmer for having put his thoughts into order. _Yes, this is who I am now_.

His mind ran forward to tomorrow. He had been hoarding his sleeping pills, had enough for two more nights, but he'd been assiduously taking his antidepressants and tomorrow would see him take the last of those. Dr. Miller had wanted him to see his family doctor, often, to get more drugs and make sure he continued his recovery but he had no intention of opening himself up to any more doctors. If Patrick was a charlatan then he was certainly able to spot the same characteristics in others and doctors had them in spades. No more doctors. He was sure the antidepressants slowed him down but he feared what would happen to him when he stopped taking them.

There were three things he wanted to achieve tomorrow. He would be seeing Susan again so he should take her a small gift. From what Zack said on the phone his current rosy situation was all down to her. She'd been a great PA and while she'd been fairly generous with everyone's severance pay she could easily have justified giving herself more. He needed Zack to relinquish control of his life back to him, make sure he wasn't under any more scrutiny. And finally he needed to break into the office that night to destroy the fax from the hospital. In fact there would probably be other references to his hospitalization in his file, he realized, he'd need to get rid of them all. He'd case the joint during his visit. He expected Zack wouldn't be easy to misdirect while he did it and Susan would be even less so. He'd have to play it by ear. _That's okay, I can do all that._

He drove, internally silent for a short while, until the word 'freedom' popped back into his mind. Yes, nothing left to lose. If that was freedom then Patrick knew himself to be exhilaratingly, terrifyingly free. He had nothing left to lose, nothing at all. He was no longer actively seeking his own death but he wasn't afraid of it, might even welcome its comforting oblivion when it came if he could be certain Red John died too. What possible punishment legal or illegal could be worse than what he was already experiencing at the hands of the monster? Freedom had further implications for him, he knew it, he just wasn't ready to consider them yet. _I have my goal: I know my first steps. Don't try look too far ahead. No battle plan outlives the first shot._

He switched the radio on, had to re-tune it to find a station playing soft jazz. The sun was getting lower now as he half-listened to the music, driving north, his memories soothing and tormenting in equal measure.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick Jane was at the mall in Carson Springs. He'd driven up through the previous afternoon and evening, arriving shortly before midnight. He'd then listened to a lot of night time radio before finally falling asleep in the car, getting just a few hours before the sun had woken him this morning. He'd gone for a long walk to clear his head and found a diner that was just opening for the day, where he'd had some pretty good eggs. By the time he'd walked back to the car and driven to the mall the stores were starting to open. Now he was looking for a shop that could sell him a box of violet creams.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window of a store that hadn't opened yet and stopped. He needed to smarten himself up a little if he was going to see Zack this afternoon. The lawyer needed to believe he was doing okay, didn't he? He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, over the incipient beard on his chin and eyed his suit. He'd been wearing it when he left the hospital, hadn't he? Then he'd driven in it, a thousand miles round trip, and slept in it twice. He needed to pick up a few additional things in the mall then find a motel where he could shower and change.

Patrick pulled up outside Taylor & Son Legal Services a little before two in the afternoon and sat in the car for a few moments. They'd discharged him from the hospital, he thought, he was looking… better than he had in the mall this morning. On the phone yesterday Zack had implied this visit was routine. There was no real reason to fear being committed again. _Pre-show nerves, always get 'em, I'll be fine._ He picked up the box of chocolates, took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.

The front door lock was pretty much as he remembered. No cameras outside. He went in and there was Susan, behind a desk right there in the outer office. She was looking more tired, her hair grayer than he remembered but the same otherwise, all beige trouser suit and sensible shoes. She glanced up as the door opened then her face lit up in the warmest smile. He was unexpectedly moved by how genuinely pleased she seemed to be and found himself returning her smile, the first real smile he could remember since…

"Mr Jane!" Susan had leapt up, was round the desk in an instant and clasping his hand, kissing his cheek. It is _good_ to see you."

"Well look at you," he said, doing just that. The pearls round her neck were new and they suited her. She'd always said she wouldn't ever wear pearls, 'pearls for tears, widows wear them,' she'd explained and when he'd replied that she was a widow she'd just laughed. They gazed at each other for a few seconds, then she took his hand and led him to the visitor chairs. It was a very 'mom' gesture, she was the most mothering person he'd ever met. He didn't usually like it when women behaved like that with him but for some reason her manner had never bothered him. She had always managed to do it with a brisk efficiency that he rather admired rather than making a fuss.

"I really am very glad to see you looking so much better," she repeated, searching his face. There it was: pity, with an undercurrent of treating him with kid gloves. He had been expecting it but it was still disappointing. He hated being pitied. His smile faded.

He proffered the box of chocolates. "I wanted to say thank you. I saw your note, all the other paperwork. Zack tells me you sorted everything out for me. Thank you. You did a great job, Susan."

She took the box and gazed at it for a few seconds. To his astonishment there seemed to be tears in her eyes. In a tiny voice she mumbled, "I'm so sorry Mr. Jane, I didn't know what you wanted, I did what I thought was the best, I hope I did right…"

Patrick, astonished, replied "You did just fine!" but didn't have time to analyze what Susan had said or the reason for the incipient tears because the inner office door had just opened. Zack was standing in it, smiling broadly, then he was shaking his hand, ushering him into his office.

"Paddy! Good to see you!" Zack waved him to a couch, sat at the desk and searched his eyes as he repeated, "it is good to see you, you're looking well." There it was again, Zack was pitying him too. He probably was pitiful but it was hard to be reminded like this.

"Good to be here," Patrick lied. Wanting to divert Zack's attention away from his health, his recent past he asked, "How's Simon doing, Zack?"

"Dad's back walking again now, he needs a stick but the physio says that's his knees. You remember he had a stroke?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Of course you do." Patrick hadn't expected Zack to say that, looked curiously at the man but again couldn't fathom the undercurrent here. It was the meds, he thought. The antidepressants have made me slower than I thought.

"Dad's decided to stay in the rest home even though he's pretty much recovered. He'll be eighty-five this year. He's giving them hell, though. They banned him from playing cards! Can you believe that? First it was just the other residents, said they were too old and vulnerable. He's the oldest guy there! They couldn't stop him playing the staff so they stopped the staff playing him, there's a 'no gambling' clause in their employment contract now. He wanted to take them to court but I persuaded him to joined the social events committee instead. Now they run a bus trip to a casino once a month. It's very popular." Zack chuckled at the thought.

Patrick also chuckled dutifully. "He'd like that. He's the best poker player I ever met."

"He told me you beat him once?"

"Yeah, just the once. Took me all night." It felt good to have an untainted memory for once. "He must have beat me about a hundred times."

Zack was alive with curiosity. "How much did you win?"

"Oh, we were just playing for matchsticks."

Jeez, you were a kid at the time? Seriously?" How did Zack know he'd just been a kid? Oh, of course, Simon would have taught his children to play poker.

"He taught you poker, betting with matchsticks rather than pennies."

"He taught all of us, always told Mom he wasn't corrupting minors if we only played for matchsticks. Andy can't play cards to save his life, I'm not bad but Julie's the best out of the three of us. None of us ever beat Dad though. How old were you?"

"Thirteen. It was that time he helped out my dad, you know, the year we first met." When his dad had gone to jail and Patrick had been placed with Carson Springs Child Services. "We made a deal, so long as I stuck to my end of the bargain I got to play him at cards. We never really played again after that year, even if we overwintered in Carson Springs I was busy." Zack was still staring at him in mute astonishment so Patrick added mildly, "Other guys beat him, too."

"Yeah, but not many. So you made a deal with him to play poker," Zack said finally, shaking his head. "It figures. You know he was a showman, back in the Forties?"

"Yeah, I heard rumors." In fact during the card games that winter he'd gotten Simon talking a lot: about his time in the army, the years he'd been on the road with the show, his student days. Patrick had always found people fascinating and the old man was quite a raconteur once he got going. "I always thought he let me win."

"No, not dad. He wasn't like that. If you won, you beat him fair and square. Man, I am never playing you at poker."

Patrick shook his head. "I'm not playing any more, Zack. Strict orders from my doctor, remember?"

At that point there was a knock on the door. It was Susan, carrying a tray.

"I brought tea as well as the paperwork. Is there anything else, Mr. Taylor? I have some errands, then I was going to head straight home," she added.

"No, thank you Susan," and she was gone, closing the door.

"I told her she could call me Zack but she insists on 'Mr. Taylor,'" Zack said, shaking his head slightly at the closed door. He started pouring the tea.

"She was with me nearly six years, I never got her to call me anything except 'Mr. Jane.'" No, he mused, she called me 'Bastard' once. These days it was all too easy to remember the terrible things he'd said and done. He felt very ashamed, now, that he'd worked so hard to provoke her. No boss should behave like that even if they were having a breakdown. Then she had gone on to sort everything out for him as if he'd never said any of it. An awful realization struck him. "Susan found me, didn't she? She called the EMTs." It wasn't a question: of course it must have been Susan. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't realized before.

"Uh, yes. No-one told you?" Zack sounded tentative, he's giving me the kid gloves treatment too, Patrick thought. He shook his head. With a jolt he realized that was what she had been sorry about in the outer office. She'd saved his life. After what he'd said. And she had worried that he didn't want to be saved, that he would hate her for doing it.

"They might have told me, Zack, there's a lot of blanks between the funeral and my starting to get better in the hospital."

He must have looked stricken because Zack was looking worried, asked, "Are you OK, Paddy?"

"Never better," he replied automatically, hitching a smile onto his face. "Shall we get on?" He indicated the folder.

It took the best part of an hour to go through all the paperwork, make the changes, print and sign everything. Patrick was bored but pretended to pay attention, agreed with everything Zack suggested and signed everything. He excused himself to the bathroom halfway through, made a thorough job of casing the place. It was easy with Susan gone: there was no alarm system but there were more filing cabinets upstairs. Finally it was all done and they were heading out of the office.

"Will you let Susan know that I'm glad she saved my life, that I'm sorry she had to deal with it all?" he asked Zack. The lawyer was putting Patrick's file back into a cabinet in the outer office; Patrick made a mental note of which drawer he'd used.

"Of course, man. No problem." Zack paused for a moment before he asked, "What will you do now, Paddy?"

Well, I've got a few things to take care of, like I said, then I was thinking of taking a break. I'd like to take some time to think about what's next for me, maybe go away. I've never been to Europe. Never had a holiday."

"You know, I took the act out with the show one year," Zack began conversationally.

Patrick didn't know this. He shook his head, "No," and looked at Zack, curious about the change of subject.

"After I graduated law school I thought I wanted to try showbusiness. My dad said he didn't know any theater owners but he could get me a season on the West Coast carny circuit. I jumped at the chance, I'd heard all his old stories. That summer I played county fairs from Washington to the Mexico border. It's one of the reasons I became a lawyer, but the other reason is you." Patrick was astonished and wary at the sudden turn in the conversation. Zack continued, "You remember when we met? Dad was putting me through law school, I was doing the Saturday morning shift at the library and doing magic gigs one or two evenings a week?" Patrick remembered it vividly but didn't want to break in on Zack's flow so just nodded. "I thought I was working so hard, two jobs and full-time college. I loved doing the magic, I was doing well with corporate gigs in Silicone Valley, I'd been thinking of giving up law and turning professional. Then I met you."

Patrick wondered where this was going. Was this some other thing that was his fault?

"You were only thirteen but you were so focused. The first time we met you were practicing coin tricks with your left hand, remember, so you could use both? You were already better with your left than I ever was with my right, and you got better. You picked up speed reading in an hour then went through twenty books a day. I told you about my memory palace, you built the biggest and most detailed one I ever heard of, not to compete but just because you felt you needed it. You cold read every person you met, you filled every minute of every day doing something to improve your act. I wanted to be in showbiz because I thought it was easy money. You opened my eyes to what the competition might look like. No-one at law school ever worked even half as hard as you, Paddy."

Patrick shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes. "I wasn't working hard, I did it because it was fun, I loved doing it. In the end it just made me into a better fraud. I can't go back to doing that. I can't. Even the idea makes me feel sick."

"I'm not saying you should go back. I'm saying you can do anything you put your mind to. Take a holiday, you deserve it. Then find something new that you enjoy doing."

He thought,_ Enjoy. Sure. _He said, "Thanks for that, Zack. I appreciate it."

"Bye, Paddy. Call me if you ever need help."

If I ever need your help again, thought Patrick, it won't be me who calls you. "Sure thing, Zack. Bye."

Back in the car Patrick drove just far enough to be out of sight of Zack's office. Maybe it had been his meds, maybe because he knew them so well, but that hadn't been too hard. _Those locks won't cause me any problems either_.


	4. Chapter 4

1972 Citroen DS Pallas four-door sedan, in blue.

She was beautiful.

Patrick Jane couldn't help himself. He gazed at her, drinking in every voluptuous curve, every delicate feature and his only thought was: simply beautiful. Just the sight of her was unexpectedly moving, captivating enough to still his mind and stir something inside that could be the ghost of joyfulness. He walked slowly around until he was gazing at her in profile. It was as if he was encountering the very essence of mechanical beauty, refined and distilled into glorious perfection. He stepped back, continued moving around her. There wasn't a straight line on her and every slight change in viewpoint subtly drew his attention to that fact. Her chrome work sparkled in the sunshine, she'd been expertly detailed and she was looking her elegant French best.

He hadn't always paid this much attention to beautiful things. When his whole life had been beautiful it had been easy to pass them by. He'd notice them, of course, but they would be just a few additional drops in the boundless, joyous ocean of beauty that made up his entire existence. He had never fully appreciated it because it was always there. No-one wastes time appreciating air, do they? Now his life was emptiness filled with darkness and this encounter with something truly beautiful took his breath away. He needed beauty now, just like he needed air. It reminded him that there was more in the world than emptiness and darkness.

He'd first spotted her three days ago when he'd left the hospital in a cab. He'd asked the driver to take him to the nearest Hertz office and he'd glimpsed her just before the cab stopped, maybe half a block back on the same side of the road. Walking there he'd found she was in the lot outside the workshop of a European car dealership. Patrick had gone in to take a closer look, waving away the young salesman at the front and heading round to the workshop at the back. She needed some work, there was an ugly scraped dent on the offside fender. Patrick had run his hand along her roof after he saw the damage in a half-unconscious gesture of affectionate consolation, as if to say: you poor old girl.

"She is something else, isn't she?" The words startled him, he looked round to see a middle-aged guy in overalls looking at her too.

"Yes, she is," he managed. Then, to avoid having to do more talking he asked, "What's her story?"

"She was my best friend's car. He bought her new from here, back in '72. We met because of her, became friends because of her. I worked on her my whole life, every service and repair."

"What happened?"

"Two years ago, when he had that accident," the man indicated the dent, "he got taken to the ER for an X-ray. They didn't find any broken ribs but they did find lung cancer. He died just about two months ago. After the funeral his daughter sold her back to us but I…" The guy tailed off, shaking his head.

Patrick felt ashamed. He'd simply wanted to avoid having to do the talking, never considered the other guy might feel the same.

"I really am very sorry to hear about your friend, Mr. …?"

"Leckebusch. Mike Leckebusch. I co-own this place, run the workshop."

"Patrick Jane." He shook the man's hand. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't instantly started trying to work out the most effective way to exploit a wealthy stranger's vulnerability once he knew it. He allowed himself the simple luxury of empathizing with another person who had suffered a recent loss. _I have a choice,_ he thought. _I can choose to act like a decent human being._

Patrick had spent some time with Mike outside the workshop that morning, just chatting with the man. He needed to return to his house in Malibu but he could spare an hour and he knew a thing or two about old cars. After a while they'd popped the hood, started her up, discussed how she'd sounded. A little later he'd found himself arguing the relative merits of French versus domestic classic cars with Mike, a mug of tea in his hand. Patrick had found it restful, almost dreamlike, an oasis of calm in the busy city and the perfect way to ease himself gently back into the real world after being closeted in the hospital for so long. Mike was an interesting man, as people with a lifelong obsession tended to be, and sympathizing with someone else's grief somehow helped ease his own.

Mike in turn had warmed to this young fellow who hadn't shied away awkwardly, as most people did, when he'd mentioned the recent loss of his friend. Instead with an easy friendly manner he'd gotten him talking about old cars, even gotten him popping the hood on the DS to take his first proper look at her. Patrick had seemed to share his feeling of melancholy but also obviously appreciated this old French lady, in spite of her battered appearance. Mike's examination had found she needed some mechanical as well as body work – new brake pads, some attention to the steering – but she was actually in terrific shape for her age. By the time Patrick was headed back to the rental car office they had shaken hands on the car. He'd come back in three days and Mike would have her ready to drive away.

So now here Patrick was three days later, back in San Francisco, admiring Mike's impeccable handiwork. It was his first day off antidepressants and he was starting to feel their absence but just the sight of this magnificent machine restored to her former glory was enough to lift his spirits. There was no joy in his life any more but seeing something this beautiful came close, it moved him in a way he didn't want to analyze, instead in simple gratitude he allowed himself to just experience it. His reverie had been so entire it had taken some time before he noticed that Mike had walked up to stand silently next to him with his arms folded, quietly contemplating her just as Patrick was doing.

"She's beautiful, Mike. You've done a magnificent job on her," he murmured.

"She deserved it. In memory of Michael, God rest his soul."

"I'll look after her the very best I can."

"I know you will, Patrick." They stood in silence again for a moment, gazing at the car. "She's yours for twenty-four thousand."

The dreamlike feeling returned to Patrick even more forcefully and he turned to Mike in astonishment. They hadn't discussed a price when they'd shook hands, Patrick had known Mike wouldn't try to overcharge him for the car and had decided not to haggle when he returned. He felt a sick anxiety grip his stomach for a moment. He hadn't been trying to exploit the situation to his advantage! He'd just decided to act like a decent person for once! Spending that hour or so with Mike straight after he left the hospital had even been helpful to him! What was going on? How could he possibly deserve this? "But she must be worth twice that, Mike, now she's in this condition," he protested.

Mike nodded slowly. "Maybe. She's priceless to me. But you'll driver her every day rather than have her sitting in a garage and you'll appreciate what you have. She was never meant to be a museum piece, wasting away in some guy's collection. With the repairs that's what she's cost me, so that's all you need to pay me for her." Seeing that Patrick was still looking doubtful he went on, "I don't need the money. I need to know she'll be loved. Pay it forward. Be good to the people you meet because you're driving her."

_Loved._

All he could think to say was "I will. Thank you, Mike."

"I'll bring the boy round with the paperwork," Mike replied as he headed round to the front office.

Forty minutes later Patrick was driving her out of the lot. He'd given the boy a few hundred dollars as a tip - there wasn't any commission on her, after all. Now he had to find a flower shop, then a parking garage near the hospital. He felt gloom settling back on him: his meds were definitely working their way out of his system. He'd have to lie to Dr. Miller. He'd disliked lying to Zack, stealing his paperwork but he'd never lied to Dr. Miller before and it seemed more significant somehow. She'd given him his life back, she was perceptive as hell, she would surely be able to spot any dissembling on his part. This was going to be harder than he'd thought.


End file.
